


Good On My Lips, On My Fingertips

by hbunting1403



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Eternal Sterek, Everything is improved by gratuitous swearing, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Guitars, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Musician Stiles, Mutual Pining, Romance, Song Lyrics, Swearing, original lyrics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-25
Updated: 2017-12-01
Packaged: 2018-12-06 23:55:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11611614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hbunting1403/pseuds/hbunting1403
Summary: "Stiles is used to keeping secrets.So it’s not that he lies to anyone about the fact that he can play the guitar, it’s just that he never told anyone he was learning. They’re too busy fighting to get to 30 that there’s never a good time to bring it up, and it gets to the point where he’s not learning any more, he’s just… playing.Really, really well."*OR the one where Derek was never meant to hear.





	1. Chapter 1

Stiles is used to keeping secrets. Lying to his dad about the existence of any and all supernatural entities was arguably one of the most difficult things he’s ever had to do and, while he’d have preferred to keep his dad out of that particular fucked-up mess of claws and fangs, he’s glad he doesn’t have to do it any more. It had been _exhausting_ . His dad might not have been blessed with a built-in lie detector like _some_ people he knows, but his inscrutable gaze has always been able to see right through Stiles’ bluster.

(Which, if you ask him, is completely unfair - if you can’t lie to your parents about sneaking out, what’s the point in being a teenager? Although admittedly most teenagers are sneaking out to have fun, not fight the forces of evil with a baseball bat.)

Anyway, his dad’s in the know now, and Stiles doesn’t have to deal with the Sheriff’s look of resigned betrayal every time he comes home with a new bruise or a bloodied face and some wafer-thin excuse about lacrosse or an uneven paving stone. _Now_ he gets a smack around the back of the head and a “stop dragging Scott into trouble” - which is totally not what’s happening here (except that it mostly is).

So it’s not that he lies to anyone about the fact that he can play the guitar, it’s just that he never told anyone he was learning. They’re too busy fighting to get to 30 that there’s never a good time to bring it up, and it gets to the point where he’s not learning any more, he’s just… playing.

Really, _really_ well.

Before he picked up a guitar (having purchased it in during one of his more extravagant 3am Amazon binges), the only thing that could really focus him - quiet that ever-present buzzing in his brain - was supernatural research. When he’s poring over the Bestiary or sifting through oddly specific search results to sort fact from fiction, the concentration comes easily. The buzzing always comes back in full force the moment his first, jaw-cracking yawn comes into play, but he knows he’ll get that blissful reprieve back again the next day.

Now he cradles a guitar against his body and the ease and familiarity of that simple gesture brings with it a silence much sweeter than the Bestiary has ever given him (and he’s glad, because rituals and gore should _not_ be that soothing; he’s willing to admit that he’s a little fucked up). He started off playing other people’s songs, but it’s been years now since he started writing his own, tapping out rhythms on every available surface without even realising he’s doing it, his pen racing across the page in a flurry of words he pretends aren’t about anyone in particular.

Denial is more than just a river in Egypt.

He’s written hundreds of songs that nobody’s ever heard but him, and that’s the way it’s going to stay. He’d rather cut off his own arm than have his pack find out about this. Because yes, he’s in denial, but somewhere in the back of his mind he knows exactly who all of his songs are about.

* * *

His dad’s on the night shift and, for once in his adult life, there’s no supernatural emergency. Scott and Allison are having a night-in while Isaac babysits their stupidly charming 2-year-old daughter (Isla), Erica and Boyd are backpacking across Europe (something that would sound deceptively charming if Erica was anything but herself), and Lydia is in London presenting a mathematical paper at a very well-publicised conference about something that went over the heads of the whole pack. Which, where Lydia is concerned, is pretty much par for the course. Nobody ever really knows where Derek is at any given time, but he’s gotten much better at checking in, and he does actually have a house now (with a garden! And window boxes!!!), so they’d know pretty quickly if something was wrong.

Stiles gently circles his hand around the neck of his guitar and the buzzing fades away as he re-tunes the instrument with practised fingers.

He plays.

> _I want to say I’m sorry_ _  
> _ _But I’m sure you’d ask me why_ _  
> _ _And I know that every lame excuse_ _  
> _ _Would sound the heartbeat of a lie_
> 
> _So I’m sorry that your stupid smile_ _  
> _ _Thrills the blood straight from my head_ _  
> _ _But it’s hard for me to just pretend_ _  
> _ _I don’t want you in my bed ---_

There’s a tap at the window and the buzzing in Stiles’ head comes back with the thrumming force of a hive of angry bees. He flails wildly (because even college and having a steady job and _being an adult_ have not aided him in becoming more coordinated) and nearly smacks his hand on the nightstand. It’s a close thing.

Someone very familiar and leather-clad is pushing up the window and climbing into his room - and Stiles’ heart almost stops.

Because super-hearing and Stiles’ own shit-poor luck means there is no way in hell Derek didn’t hear that entire fucking song.

He doesn’t remember standing, but that’s what he’s doing; just clutching the neck of his slightly battered guitar and staring at Derek, who’s kind of just… staring back. Which is actually pretty rude, since he’s the one who just snuck into Stiles’ bedroom at ass o’clock at night when the front door has been an option now for at least a few years. I mean, his dad’s not even here? Derek would know that with his creepy, heartbeat-detecting existence. It’s this trivial annoyance that snaps him out of his funk.

“I’m sorry, did we go back in time? Do I have to tell my dad about werewolves again? Because that wasn’t any fun the first time, dude.” He nearly crosses his arms, before realising he’s still holding his guitar. Derek’s eyebrows furrow.

“What?”

“Oh we actually _have_ gone back in time! I thought we were over one word answers and judgey eyebrows.” Stiles isn’t sure why he’s so frustrated, but he’s pretty sure he’s never felt this exposed in his life. “The front door, Derek - use it, like a normal werewolf.” This earns him a snort of laughter.

“So there are normal werewolves now?” he asks, leaning against the wall like he’s on the cover of GQ or something, the _fucker_. “Are you including Jackson in that category?”

“Jackson is as welcome in this home as all virulent strains of E. Coli, but that’s not the point - _you’re_ meant to know better,” he says, pointing the finger of his free hand accusingly at the intruder. “How are the puppies meant to learn if their Alpha is creeping into people’s bedrooms at night and frightening unsuspecting Beacon Hills citizens?” Derek raises his eyebrows but doesn’t say anything. His eyes travel slowly and inexorably towards the guitar in Stiles’ left hand and Stiles tenses.

“I've never heard you play before,” Derek says slowly, like this is a normal conversation between them and he didn't just climb through the fucking window unannounced in the middle of the night while Stiles was _singing a song he wrote about Derek’s smile_. “You're good.” Stiles snorts, putting on a show of bravado to try and cover the staccato beat of his traitorous heart.

“Of course I’m good - have we met? I get completely obsessed, I master it, I get bored. You’ve seen me with a baseball bat - if I ever decided to go pro I’d change the face of American sports.”

“It doesn't look like you're bored of this yet.” Stiles is only annoyed by that response because he'd known it was coming. He grits his teeth.

“Okay but I _am_ bored of this conversation now,” he tries, hoping to divert the discussion away from anything involving him and a guitar. Of course, getting Derek to do anything he doesn't want to do is about as easy as… well, it's about as easy as getting _Stiles_ to do something he doesn't want to do. Except with more physical resistance. And claws.

“That song - is it one of yours?” Derek asks, cool and offhand as he takes a step forward. His head is cocked to the side in a dog-like gesture that even Stiles can't manage to find the humour in at that moment. He swallows.

“Yeah.” He doesn't know what else to say. Lying is pointless, but Derek’s unwaveringly curious gaze is sending a flush from his cheeks to his neck; he knows it's probably already spreading across his chest beneath his shirt, because whole-body-blushing is a Stilinski specialty. He feels weirdly caged-in.

“It wasn't about Lydia,” Derek says, with a surety and insistence he usually reserves for his ‘The Bite Is A Gift’ speeches. It's unnerving to be on the end of that intensity when he can't even make fun of it. Stiles bites his lip but doesn't answer. Derek takes another step forward - and if Stiles were to reach out now, the tips of his fingers would brush the soft black cotton covering Derek’s chest. He knows what that would feel like - it’s not like he’s never been close enough to touch Derek - but this feels different somehow.

He doesn't reach out. Derek doesn't stop talking.

“You're infuriating.” He doesn't sound particularly infuriated. Stiles still can't bring himself to speak, too concerned that all that he’d be able to manage would be a strangled sort of whimper. _He has his limits._ “You never listen to me, you bring me burritos because you're _bored_ , then you eat the thing yourself - and I keep thinking I know you but-” Derek breaks off with a frustrated sound, running a hand through his hair and making up the distance still between them with a few short steps. Stiles drops the guitar. Neither of them even flinch at the resulting twang of strings.

“Sometimes I bring curly fries too,” Stiles argues, but his voice is hoarse and his fingers are itching with the need to touch. Derek brings one hand up to rest on the back of Stiles’ neck - just the minutest of pressures that still manages to light on fire every last one of Stiles’ nerve endings.

“Stiles.” He sounds completely _wrecked_ , which is probably the most gratifying thing that’s ever happened to Stiles, and the sound alone sends the blood rushing away from his head. “Tell me it was about me. I need… Please. Just tell me.” The silence is anything but silent, the heated symphony of ragged breathing sounding larger than life in Stiles’ tiny childhood bedroom. His answer, his next words _whatever they are_ , seem to matter in a way they don’t usually.

“Yes.” The word is barely out of his mouth before Derek’s kissing him; and Stiles has been to college now, okay, he’s been kissed. He’s had kisses that, at the time, felt pretty good, but this time he feels on fire. This time, the only thing he can think about is how hot his mouth is, how much he seems to be everywhere at once. This time, he feels like he's drowning in it, and he’s never cared less about oxygen.

_They could have been doing this for years._ Stiles has thought about this a lot; he's written hundreds of lyrics dedicated to the very idea of getting this close to Derek. He’s always found a kind of catharsis in writing about things he never thought would happen.

But now something _is_ happening, and he realises that his lyrics have been woefully inadequate. Derek kisses like his lips on Stiles’ are the only thing that matters; like he's been thinking about it for years - which Stiles is starting to believe he might have been - and it's making his knees weak.

Because apparently they’re in a Harlequin romance novel _and it’s incredible_.

When they stop for breath, Stiles realises his arms have wound their way around Derek’s neck, but as he moves to let go, Derek’s hands tighten on his hips.

(And holy shit, _Derek’s hands are on his hips._ )

“They’re all about you.” It takes Stiles a moment to realise it’s himself speaking, and then another couple of seconds for him to realise he’s saying something he always swore he’d take to his grave (so sue him, he's a little dramatic). “I've written so many fucking songs about your stupid face because-” He cuts himself with an almost violent snort of derision and closes his eyes before he can do something embarrassing like telling the freaking _male model_ in his bedroom that he's totally gone on him.

He opens his eyes and Derek is looking at him like he holds the secrets of the universe. Surprise and adrenaline light up his veins; he’s blown away by how open and trusting the man looks in that moment - Derek Hale is in his bedroom; is looking at him like _that_ ; has made a declaration with his lips and tongue and teeth that made Stiles’ spine tingle.

He can be brave too.

“Because I'm in love with you,” he finishes, voice barely more than a whisper; he knows Derek will hear it anyway. “I'm so gone on you it's embarrassing. I've had actual, real-life, genuinely attractive human beings ask me out and I've said _no_ because they're not you. I've tried to write songs about something else and they still end up being an ode to your fucking hairline or something because there's no part of you that I don't want _apparently_. I've loved you for years and I didn’t tell you because I kind of thought it would end in maiming but I couldn't stop loving you anyway.”

Stiles is breathing heavily, and Derek is just staring at him with something akin to wonder on his face. He reaches out and drags a calloused thumb slowly over Stiles’ swollen bottom lip; then he ducks in again and the kiss is so gentle, so fucking _tender_ , that tears prick at the corners of Stiles’ eyes and hell if _that_ isn't a bizarre and unexpected response.

The kiss seems to last hours, and when they finally stop for breath, Stiles can hear Derek’s low whisper clear as day.

“I love you too… for years. I didn’t know how to say it.”

Stiles rests his forehead against Derek’s, eyes closed and smiling so widely his face is already aching.

“That was pretty good - but you can try it a few more times if you like.”


	2. Stubborn Pride - full song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is kind of a gift for Lopey1996, who asked for the full song... Well, here it is. It's a bit rough and ready, but I was humming while I wrote it! I'm sure someone could make something much better out of it (I am not a lyricist, friends), but here we are.
> 
> Enjoy x

I want to say I’m sorry   
But I’m sure you’d ask me why   
And I know that every lame excuse   
Would sound the heartbeat of a lie

So I’m sorry that your stupid smile   
Thrills the blood straight from my head   
But it’s hard for me to just pretend   
I don’t want you in my bed

When you’re running for your life  
You itch when standing still  
That point between your shoulder blades  
That sleep just cannot fill  
When you’re holding back the tide  
With nothing but your fingernails and stubborn pride  
Just know  
That you’re not fooling me

We’ve come so close to failing  
That our dreams have now aligned  
Because any sleep we get at night  
Is a million miles from fine

I apologise again for this  
But I wanted to you to know  
That I’m the one who’d crumble here  
If you thought it best to go

When we’re running for our lives  
We itch when standing still  
That point between our shoulder blades  
That sleep just cannot fill  
And we’re holding back the tide  
With nothing but our fingernails and stubborn pride  
Just know  
That we’re not fooling anyone you see

So I’m sorry I’m in love with you  
It’s the last thing that you need  
But I’m holding on to the vainest hope  
That maybe you’d love me

Just me

We’re always running for our lives  
Can’t we just stand still  
I can kiss between your shoulder blades  
If you’d just let me in  
Let someone else hold back the tide  
Get rid of all your stubborn pride  
I know  
You know  
That we’re not fooling anyone  
Oh, you and me

**Author's Note:**

> Please, for the love of God, excuse my truly awful lyrics. I must confess I wrote them myself, but trust me when I tell you that all previous incarnations of this hellish song were ten times worse.
> 
> Also --- look ma, no sex!
> 
> Proving that I can write something that doesn't end in these guys going at it like rabbits. I have prevailed! And before you ask, yes - I do indeed want a cookie.
> 
> Comments, kudos, bookmarks, small furry quadrupeds (e.g. cats, dogs, marmosets, etc.), and most forms of liquor are welcome. You're all gorgeous. Look at you! God, I can't stand it. It's like staring into the sun.


End file.
